


Equal to the Love You Make

by bopeep



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Seeking a Friend for the End of the World (2012), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Drug Use, M/M, Road Trips, Service Dogs, Teacher Steve Rogers, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, stark tower’s movie challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8454079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bopeep/pseuds/bopeep
Summary: Kindergarten teacher Steve Rogers is staring down the barrel of the last two weeks on earth with nothing to show for his life but a failed marriage, a broken family, and a bucket list of wishes he never thought to make true. Hermitic Bucky Barnes lives in the same building. In fact, he can't remember the last time he left it for longer than it takes to walk his service dog Luigi around the block. The world will end without his having seen it.When the apocalypse knocks down their doors, they have nothing but time, and each other, to lose.(~an AU based on Seeking a Friend for the End of the World for Stark Tower’s movie challenge~)





	1. Children Will Listen

“Maybe I'm being a little hypercritical here, but I’m thinking we don’t open with ‘given the inevitability of death, don’t send your children to school so our staff can enjoy these final days in fucking peace.’” Steve hovered over his co-teacher's shoulder, arms folded tightly over a permanently finger-painted blue sweater totally indistinguishable from any other he wore to work. Wade cocked his head, fingers lingering over the keys.  
  
“Too honest?”  
  
“No," Steve shrugged. "Honesty is good. But that’s no reason not to be gentle.”  
  
“Stevie. Petunia." The man spun to face him. "The Horde'll be here in twenty minutes. There are three weeks left on the rock. Who’s gonna fire me?"   
  
“Fair point. And I’m with you, believe me," Steve relented. His eyes danced over the bright posters he and Wade had made over the years, goofy-faced animals and numbers and letters, labors of love that may or may not have taught little minds anything worth learning here at the end of the line. "I just--- yknow. They’re kids.”  
  
“And if they’ve never seen the word ‘fuck’ in print before, I’m thrilled I was the first and last person to do it.” Wade grinned and continued typing.  
  
“Okay. Alright." Steve found himself laughing. "Maybe just stick a ‘please’ in there.” Wade sighed heavily. “For me. Just one. C'mon.”  
  
“One 'please.' You’re lucky you’re so cute and fragile, Rogers.”

* * *

 _Given the inevitability of death, please don’t send your children to school so our staff can enjoy these final days in fucking peace. Prioritize family, and feel free to take what little time is left to teach them the important lessons we could not. Ball’s in your court now. The teachers at Kinder Patch: Brooklyn have loved you, dearly, the kind of love that cleans up vomit and shit and takes home bruises and pudding in their wallets somehow, more than once, and wishes you all luck in this godforsaken time. Bye!_  
  
Steve frowned as he pinned it to another small shirt at the end of the day. Gwen looked up at him with worry in those glass blue eyes.  
  
“This is the last day of school?” She asked. “Forever?”  
  
“It is,” Steve said honestly. He couldn't stomach the idea of any of his kids not knowing the truth. “There are three weeks until the end of the whole world.”  
  
“What happens then?” A little boy eagerly raised his hand, seated cross-legged on the carpet. Steve sighed. Wade was tying Doreen's shoes for her, and now seemed as good a time as ever to wrap things up.  
  
“Hey, teammates, everybody to the Apple carpet. I’m going to tell you about these notes that I’m sending home for your grown-ups, okay?” He announced in his decisive teacher voice. “ _Criss-cross applesauce---_ ”  
  
“ _\---spoons in the bowl!_ ” The kids chimed obediently, sitting pretzel-style with their hands quietly in their laps. Idly Steve wondered if this was the last time he would invoke this magic spell.  
  
“Who can tell me what the news has been telling us about the end of the world?" He asked, the absurdity of the moment bright and bold. One boy eagerly raised his hand. "Miles?”  
  
“There’s a meteor coming and we tried to explode it but it’s going to hit the earth and explode the earth instead," he said proudly. Steve nodded.  
  
“That’s right. Good summary, Miles. There is a very large meteor in the sky named _Matilda_ ," he wrote her name on the board as if anybody would need to know how to spell out their Great Destructor for posterity, "and scientists have been watching it very carefully because when it hits the earth, it will crash very hard. We sent a rocket ship called _Deliverance_ and they were not able to stop it,” Steve swallowed the lie. _Deliverance_ burned up and the scientists on board were killed. He didn’t see any reason to dwell on that when things had gotten considerably more grim since then. “So the scientists know that we have three weeks from today before that big crash. That’s when we all die. That is what will happen to everyone." All eyes were on him, wide and worried. Wade was watching him, too. "Does that sound scary to some of you? Raise your hand if it sounds a little scary.” Most of the kids raised their hands. Steve raised his. “I think it sounds scary. It might be a little scary. But I think it’s okay to be scared, as long as we let the heebie-jeebies out right now, and then move on so that we have the best three weeks left."  
  
"How do we do that, Mr. Rogers?" Wade asked pointedly, standing up in a gesture for the kids to follow. Steve tipped an imaginary hat. For all the trouble it had been, wrangling a circus of children every day in this small and garish room, Wade was farcically unshakable, because no one could outdo him for immaturity. Together, the two of them were a great team.  
  
"Here's how, Mr. Wilson. Take all your heebie jeebies about the meteor, and on the count of three we’re going to yell as loud as we can for SEVEN WHOLE SECONDS.” The eyes watching him were wide; they had a strict No Shouting rule in Mr. Rogers’ classroom. “And when I get to ten, we’re going to be absolutely silent, take one big deep breath, and think about our favorite thing on earth, okay? Ready? 1...2...3.”  
  
The room erupted in tiny shrieks and yells, a few sobs. Steve shouted, too, and then he counted.  
  
“TEN!” The room fell silent, wide eyes watching him. He guided their thoughts. “Okay. Good job. Now, picture in your head the things that makes you the happiest in the whole world. Is it dogs? Is it your brother? In your head I want you to color it with memory crayons so you remember everything about it. When I say 'hocus pocus,' you know the magic response, and you’ll go back to your table, I want you to draw a picture of what’s in your imagination. I’m going to write the words 'Thank you, earth!' on the board if you want to put that in your picture." He did. His handwriting would never be better than in this moment, he thought. "Okay, picture that favorite happy thing in your mind. Close your eyes and see it in full color so you can take it with you, right out of your dreams. And you can do this same thing whenever you feel scared.”  
  
They sat, eyes closed, chests heaving from the screams, the genuine terror that grown-ups felt and only just now acknowledged one by one. Soft smiles appeared on their dreamy faces now. He wanted to bottle that moment and drink it til he passed out, that kind of oblivious haze with happy thoughts dancing above each little head like a halo of fireflies. His eyes welled and he let them keep theirs closed another moment so they wouldn't see him wipe the tears away. “ _Hocus pocus---_ ”  
  
“ _\---now let’s focus!_ ” They responded in unison and scattered to their work stations. Steve made the rounds and watched them drawing diligent crayon captures of their families and their houses and foods and animals, Disney World and fireworks and Christmas trees.  
  
“What’s your drawing?” Doreen looked up at him with a wide grin after she explained every detail of her tree house. Steve blinked. “What’s your happy thought?” He patted Doreen’s head with a plastic smile.  
  
“You kids, of course. My cool friends in this classroom.”  
  
“Aww, _Mr. Rogers,_ ” Wade sang. "That's a nice lie."  
  
“Mr. Rogers look at my rainbow jelly beans!”  
  
“Mr. Rogers, how do you draw a kangaroo?”  
  
“Will you spell strawberry for me, please?”  
  
He was surrounded again by small requests, the kind that had kept him humming like a happy machine for so many years. The final three weeks stared him down in the back of his mind. The finite emptiness scared him most.  
  
Steve kept going to work even when the other teachers did not. A few kids still managed to show up the next day, but fewer every morning until one day he found himself alone, and he made it the day’s task to shut the place down and drive home, as he always did, at five.  
  
Steve always listened to public radio in his car; he liked to hear the news rather than rely on flashing images and cake make-up weathermen. Recently it was a lot of the same: which corporations had thrown the towel in, what services they should expect to eventually go without for the remaining days (the internet, the post, public transportation...) which celebrities had either made a spectacle of killing themselves or published some kind of hopeful publicity note for their downtrodden fans, as if they weren’t scrambling to surround themselves in everything their money hadn’t bought yet.  
  
He switched it to the classical station. An older gentleman’s voice filled the car.

“---that excellent Bacchanale from _Samson and Delilah_ , conducted by Gustavo Dudamel at the Berlin Phil. I hope that was as sweet a treat for you this afternoon as it was for me, I just love that… but what I hope, is that you’ll indulge me, listeners, over the next few weeks, as I hope you’re indulging yourselves, because I’m going to be playing all my favorites and some of yours. Typically this is when I would tell you we’re in the middle of our annual pledge drive, but things as they are, money doesn’t mean a whole lot to us here at WPQX anymore. As such, here is the Star Wars overture from John Williams.”  
  
Steve drove home with a smile, weaving carefully through traffic pile-ups (steadily rising, because humanity ever had a tenuous grasp on road rage as it was,) but felt the happiness washing pale when he reached the front door of the apartment building. Several of his neighbors’ boxes were overflowing with mail already; they’d left the city or worse. He tried not to think about it.  
  
In his own box, erroneously but not for the first time, a whole stack of travel and photography magazines meant for another tenant waited for him. He flipped through, admiring the covers. They were obviously back-issues; no magazine had bothered to print a new edition since the bad news. Idly it occurred to him that the mail would stop altogether any day now, and whichever neighbor was James (he had no idea,) would possibly miss them, until nobody missed anything anymore, in which case, what was the point? Steve worried himself ending every train of thought inevitably with “what was the point?” He threw the magazines on the sofa and put Stouffer’s mac and cheese in the microwave. He could hear Sharon’s voice, all sunny laughs, in their dorm kitchenette warning him it had enough saturated fat to last a grown bear all hibernation when she took it away. What did he care, now. He could have all the mac and cheese he wanted, for more than the obvious reason.  
  
His phone buzzed horribly on the counter, shattering the quiet, and Steve jumped to grab it. He rolled his eyes to see it was Sam.  
  
“Steve Rogers! My man, you’re coming to Tony’s Last Supper party tonight, aren’t you?” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I don’t know.” He did know: he was not. He was going to watch a movie and fall asleep at eight o'clock.  
  
“Literally, Steve, this is the last party of its kind of earth. You can’t put it off because there is nowhere to put it off til. Hey,” Sam leveled with him, “please don't do this to yourself. Don’t treat it like it’s not happening.” Steve pulled out a single spoon from the cutlery drawer. Everything was clean. He'd run out of busywork.  
  
“I know it’s happening, Sam, I just don’t feel like making a big deal of it,” he sighed. That much was true.  
  
“Not to raise the dead here but this is exactly what you said when Sharon left.”  
  
“Yeah. Was it?”  
  
“Yeah, it was. Word for word. You've got to come out, say goodbye to me at least. I’m going home.” The word hit Steve like a brick to the face. “I miss my family. I'm going home.”  
  
“Yeah. I get that.” In truth, he didn’t. Besides the limbs severed by Sharon, Steve’s family tree was grimly sparse, and probably he had no one closer than Sam if he was being honest with himself. He stared into the microwave. “I guess I’ll be there then. I gotta go, going out for dinner.”  
  
“No, you’re not.”  
  
“No, I’m not. See you later.”  
  
The mac and cheese tasted as perfectly terrible as he remembered. He looked at photos of Sharon and Sarah, small and smiling, in his phone, contemplated calling, and didn’t. The ritual was complete, and he let himself go to a party.

* * *

“Okay, okay. Bucket list.” A dark-haired woman tapped her fingers on the sides of the tequila bottle handed to her. She had introduced herself earlier, sober, as Maria. Sober Maria had long since retired. Tequila Maria’s blouse had considerably fewer buttons. “Um. Threesome. Heroin. Skinny dipping. Champagne bath.”  
  
“That sounds uncomfortable,” another woman laughed. “Bubbles, I mean. In places.”  
  
“And heroin doesn’t?” Steve asked, incredulously. He was five or six fingers deep into the most expensive scotch he’d ever seen because Tony had all kinds of shit lying around the house just _waiting_ for a hedonistic romp party like this one.  
  
“I mean,” Maria shrugged meaningfully, gesturing at the state of the world all at once. The rest of the conversation circle laughed. “That having been said, Viz brought coke if anybody---” A chorus of agreement rang out. The party went from a morbid dinner to what Steve genuinely worried might be a real orgy, and there were kids of all ages running around with sparklers and alcohol and entire tubes of cookie dough. The spirit was admirable but he couldn’t get into it. Sam and Tony’s Pepper had tried very hard to hook him up with a girl named Darcy, who checked in with him every twenty minutes or so to see if he felt like making out yet. It was starting to make him laugh now, so at least there was that.  
  
“Darcy, you’re relentless.”  
  
“Steve, you’re adorable and I want to kiss your face! Don’t make me die without never knowing!” She grinned, dragging his arm to the makeshift rave in the living room. They were playing all the records from their mint condition cases that everyone had been keeping nice for whatever reason, and God, did Abbey Road sound good on vinyl. Married couples had brought their frozen cake slices and without warning it became obvious to one person and then everybody that it was time to smear those cakes all over everyone’s faces, and Steve slipped out the front door to fall face first onto the lawn. He sobered by morning, when he realized he somehow got back into his apartment and was sitting on the floor next to the couch instead of on top of it, and there was someone knocking at his fire escape window. Steve's voice came out of him suddenly with a sharp edge, jagged like an old crow.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“Are you okay?” A young man peered in at him, bundled in several layers with dark hair falling in his face. Steve winced at the light streaming behind him.  
  
“What do you mean, am I okay? Who are _you_?”  
  
“You tried to get into my apartment and you left your coat in there when I woke up. I live beneath you. Let me in.” Steve eyed him suspiciously. “I’m not gonna murder you or steal your shit, let me in.” The man held up Steve’s leather coat. There was a lot of silly string stuck to it. Steve got up slowly, testing his gravity, and shoved the casement up. “You’re trashed, kid.”  
  
“‘M not trashed. I had some whiskey.” Steve resented everything, up to and including this scruffy dude who claimed to live in the building but had never been seen, who was now climbing through the window like the hangover fairy come to pay him a visit, all smiles.  
  
“No judgment, hey, I was just making an observation. Now’s the time to have vices,” he shrugged, looking around the living room. "Different layout from my place. Interesting."  
  
“You couldn’t knock at the front door like a normal person?” Steve groused. The man grinned.  
  
“You broke the lock on my front door,” he said, picking up a dying succulent to poke at it, “so I had to barricade it with dining room chairs for now. Building manager’s been gone for a while.” Steve groaned and raked his hands over his face. “It’s all good, man, don’t worry about it.”  
  
“I haven’t been able to get drunk since college. I thought I was immune to alcohol.”  
  
“There’s a shitty superpower if ever I heard one,” the man shrugged. “Can I make you some tea? You look so shaken, buddy, I’m sorry.”  
  
“That’d be--- we’re in _my_ apartment, you don't get to offer me tea,” Steve realized, incredulously. “And I don’t know your name.”  
  
“Bucky Barnes.” He held out a hand to shake and Steve was suddenly aware it was the only one he had. He tried not to stare but Bucky caught his glance at the empty sleeve. “Ex-army recluse from the basement. Usually there’s a prosthesis there, if you’re wondering.”  
  
“Steve Rogers, shitty neighbor.” Steve winced and shook hands. “Sorry I made such a bad first impression.”  
  
“Gettin’ worse,” Bucky said, making a bee-line for the coffee table. “Is this where all my magazines end up?” Steve blinked.  
  
“I didn’t realize. Are you James?” Bucky nodded. “I’m sorry. I thought for sure it was a post office prank. Airspace being closed to commercial flights now, and all. Couldn’t figure out why anybody would be planning trips right now. ”  
  
“I’m not, I just---” Bucky got defensive, straightening considerably. “I haven’t been a lot of places, is all, and I was curious.” His neighbor lovingly smoothed over a creased cover photo of the Taj Mahal as he sat to look at them and Steve felt his stomach drop in a way that could be the alcohol’s final hoorah or something worse. “Figured I could learn about them and then it would be like I went. What are you doing with the rest of _your_ life?” He asked. Steve heard every party guest’s bucket list at once in his mind.  
  
“Apparently the answer’s supposed to be heroin,” he said blankly, summarizing. “Heroin and threesomes.” Bucky shrugged, turning back to his magazine propped on the table.  
  
“Not all that special, if you want to know,” he said. Steve stared.  
  
“You’ve done heroin?”  
  
“Both. They warn you that communication is super-important but too much communication is also a mistake,” he said gravely. Steve coughed on a bewildered laugh he was trying to stifle. “You never had a threesome?”  
  
“No. I--- I had a wife. For a time,” he swallowed unwillingly. Bucky glanced up briefly like he wanted to say something more, but only shrugged.  
  
“Happens.”  
  
“She, uh---” Steve felt momentarily awkward, like Bucky was judging him too harshly. “She took our daughter a little while back. When they first sent up _Deliverance_. She said she’d been thinking about it for a long time, just--- going home. She’s a good woman. She needed space.” Bucky wasn’t looking at his magazine anymore but instead right at Steve, and in that same way he quietly regarded a color photograph of the Taj Mahal.  
  
“Is that what you needed?” He asked, and in fact, he was the first to ask. Steve wondered.  
  
“I don’t need much of anything. I’m like a succulent,” he smiled. “But I do need Advil right now. You want anything?”  
  
“Like pills?” He asked. Steve laughed. He wouldn’t know where to get them if he tried.  
  
“No, like food,” he replied. “Or drink.” Bucky considered it but shook his head, worrying his lip.  
  
“No, thanks, though. Maybe later. I should deal with these,” he said, smiling down at his magazines. He perked. “Wait, you said you had a kid?”  
  
“Yeah. Sarah. She’s about five---”  
  
“I definitely got some of your mail, too.” He got up and took a step towards the front door before turning heel. “We gotta go down the back. My front door’s busted,” he grinned. Steve popped an Advil and followed.  
  
“That sucks. I bet whoever did that feels really bad,” he grumbled, hiking his legs through the window opening and onto the fire escape. He waited outside Bucky’s window as his neighbor slid into his apartment, curious though he was. Bucky’s head came back through.  
  
“You wanna meet my service dog?” Steve didn’t have time to say yes before a gigantic wet nose poked through the curtains and absolutely devoured his hands with slobber. Steve fished the jingling tags out of the dog’s fluffy mane: _Luigi_.  
  
“Luigi, huh? Are you a good boy?” Steve asked. Luigi blinked and trotted heavily back into the apartment without answering properly.  
  
“He’s decent, but more of a chaotic neutral,” Bucky replied, returning to the sill. He was holding a small red envelope and a stack of bills. “All yours. Fair trade for my pretty pictures,” he said with a smirk. Steve looked down at the stack.  
  
“I know I have no right to be mad but have you had these for long?” Not that it mattered, but probably a lot of the notices were overdue, he thought. Bucky averted his gaze.  
  
“I don’t really leave anymore, so, short answer yes.” Steve looked at him quizzically.  
  
“You came up to my apartment just now.”  
  
“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, lowering his voice. “I didn’t realize I was doing it until I was doing it. That’ll probably be the last time I do that for a while. I can manage about two dog walks a day, though.” Steve hadn’t noticed, but he was trembling. His laid-back put-on attitude couldn’t mask what his body betrayed. Luigi came and sat his whole body in Bucky’s lap on the kitchen floor, totally blocking him from the window. “Okay, pal. I know.” Steve surprised himself as angry as he was.  
  
“You’ve been down here this whole time and never--- I could’ve come---”  
  
“Two to tango, Steve. Anyway, we’re friends now and life is increasingly short, so.” Bucky laughed nervously. “Water under the bridge. I’ll catch you later.” He moved the shut the window and Steve backed away, off-guard. It occurred to him that this was not the time to forge new friendships, but honestly he didn’t have a whole lot on his plate otherwise. Steve was looking down the barrel of two long and empty weeks. He’d said the trivial and meaningful goodbyes and what loose ends he had left wouldn’t bother him, or even exist as a bother, eventually. _What’s the point, what’s the point, what’s the point._ His mantra kept him sedate and blank as the afternoon wore on and he had nothing to distract him. He put food into his face idly, lay on the couch listening to the soothing old man on the radio, wallowed. Eventually, his curiosity won. He opened every overdue bill and notice in the stack from Bucky, until all that remained was the red envelope.  
  
To his surprise, it was addressed to “Daddy."


	2. Been a Long Day

Luigi, a mutt of impeccable tastes and proclivities, much preferred the meatballs from Spaghettios with Meatballs to his Costco brand EconoKibble. Because Bucky had subzero levels of restraint, he diligently separated them from the noodle mush to catapult by spoon across the room for Luigi to catch with military precision. Vaulting another pressed meat projectile into the air, Bucky was vaguely aware he was down to the last six cans and grocery delivery service had definitely stopped. Luigi snapped it midair and jovially paced in a circle as he swallowed his prize, oblivious to its increasing rarity. Bucky sighed.  
  
“We’re gonna have to start rationing these, G.” Luigi sat wagging his tail, awaiting a second. Bucky smiled and fished out another. “See, that’s the right idea. Treat whatever meatballs that are left like you’ve never seen a meatball before. You goddamn inspiration, Lu...” His own dinner had gotten a little cold. He might save it for tomorrow anyway; that would stretch him to another week. With the meal out of the way he had an entire evening free (they were all always free, but these free evenings that were numbered in a different way weighed differently in his mind.) “I’m gonna put this in a tupperware for tomorrow. Reheated Spaghettio’s are a delicacy in Germany, you know. I read all about it,” he joked.  
  
Luigi blinked.  
  
“No. _Berlin_ , Luigi, come on.” He wheeled around and gestured to the wall above his bed, plastered with photos and facts and maps like a scrapbook. Between a torn article on Mardi Gras and a photo of Big Ben was the interior of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, beautiful rows in geometric elegance surrounding a central performance space in golden layers like petals. The description called it a “ship’s keel.” Bucky liked to imagine conducting with his metallic prosthesis in a space so ethereal, this golden crescent of the most talented performers in the world, the great organ towering above, the choir stalls humming in perfect layers of soprano, alto, all the way down to thundering cavernous bass. The ceiling high above (acoustically perfect, dappled with little gold pyramid shapes to bounce sound,) had lights sprinkled about like a starry sky; it was all about it, heaven. For all he could wax poetic about the place, Bucky had never been there. He tapped the photo. Luigi obediently sat on the bed and looked on.  
  
“Berlin,” he said. “You remember. I read you the article. _Berliner Philharmoniker_ , actually. Because it’s German, and German is a very efficient language. All the words are just sandwiches of smaller words and everything sounds silly, _mein hund_.” Luigi stared at the wall, blinking heavy lids like a bored schoolboy. “You’ve definitely got some German breed in you, mountainous as you are.” He massaged little circles on Luigi’s cheeks, as if Luigi could possibly be any more content than he always currently was, and his calm deepened by leagues. Bucky had an entire night mapped out in the new magazines from his neighbor. With five magazines, he definitely had fodder for a week’s daydreams and _imagination vacations_ , as he liked to call them in the dopey tour guide voice-over of his mind. He spread the five magazines on the floor, all open to their cover stories, and planned his journey.

* * *

It was there that he fell asleep, Luigi wrapped thoughtfully around him, and it was there that, after smashing through his kitchen window with a potted plant, Steve Rogers woke him with a start sometime after midnight. Luigi sounded the alarm and Bucky frantically wiped sleep from his eyes.  
  
“Can you literally not use entrances correctly?” He rasped, gathering his magazines clumsily. He held them to his chest as Steve was climbing in through the broken pieces, oblivious to the shards.  
  
“There’s a mob riot happening. Three buildings over is on fire, car alarms are going off and everything. Looting.” He breathlessly gestured over his shoulder towards the growing roar; it was alarmingly close, punctuated with breaking glass and shouting and what were hopefully fireworks but probably not. Bucky frowned.  
  
“You broke my window to tell me this?”  
  
“Bucky. We gotta get out! It’s too dangerous to stay in New York City anymore!” Steve was dumbfounded; he thought surely they’d both immediately vacate and find safety until things blew over, and Bucky didn't seem to want to budge. Luigi growled, low and fierce, standing between his owner and the intruder.  
  
“What? No, we’ll be fine,” Bucky said, the words ringing false even in his own ears. He nervously looked around the room. “It’s an apartment building. We’re good.” Steve shook his head.  
  
“No, a brick came through my bedroom window. _We are not good._ ”  
  
“It’s fine, you just stay down here with me then,” he said, offering his hands up as if the gesture was obvious. But Steve was frantically searching the apartment, tossing things on the kitchen table: a roll of paper towels, a water bottle, a box of matches. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Where’s your dog’s leash?”  
  
“Steve, calm down.”  
  
“Where’s his leash?” Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d yelled in anger if you didn’t count fear. He had a no-yelling policy, after all. He was straight-up shouting at his neighbor, barking orders with a frustration he couldn’t map. “If you’re staying, I’m taking the dog. I’m not having two deaths on my conscience.” He threw open cabinets, darting around the strange apartment blind. Bucky followed him, helpless.  
  
“You can’t take my dog! The government gave me that dog!”  
  
“The government is over and so is the law!” Steve felt an unreasonable panic rising within him; it hadn’t occurred to him for a second that Bucky would put up any resistance. Desperation was kicking in. “My dog now. Or pack up a bag and we’re _going_.” The mob was getting closer and the sounds of horror in the street amplified. Bucky stared at him, wide-eyed, listening.  
  
“Going where?” Steve exhaled exasperatedly, throwing up his arms to shoo him along.  
  
“Don’t think. Just do it. Whatever’s important to you. _Please, man_.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t know, I just--- you came to help me and I'm returning the favor. We’ve got to get out, can you just trust me? I’m not leaving without you,” he huffed. Bucky read his face, looking between his neighbor, this resolute and fuming asshole, and his precious dog, and it was then that Bucky snapped into action, pulling a black backpack from under the couch and stuffing his magazines into it. Steve was already throwing the things from the kitchen table into his duffle bag. There was a loud crash in the stairwell and Steve and Bucky looked at each other gravely; the building had been breached.  
  
“Good thing somebody already started barricading this door,” Bucky grumbled, pushing another side table against the growing furniture pile that was already in place since Steve had broken the lock the other night. Steve rolled his eyes and pushed a bookcase against the frame, books scattering. He then caught a glimpse at Bucky’s mural of magazine cut-outs above the bed and stilled for half a second, affording just a snapshot to put on the back-burner for heartbreak when he had time to feel it. Luigi paced between them, leashed on a long tether, and Bucky patted him sympathetically. “Back the way you came in?” He suggested. Steve nodded and they darted through the kitchen and out into the back alleyway.  
  
Hitting the ground, they looked towards the mob scene and both instinctively ran in the other direction. “Where’s your car?” Bucky shouted, Luigi running alongside him. Steve looked over his shoulder.  
  
“On the street out front. It’s smashed, I’m over it,” he breathed heavily, “do you have one?” Bucky hesitated. “What? Do you or don’t you, Buck?”  
  
“I haven’t driven it in a long time,” he admitted. “Like at all, increasingly. I don’t know if I should.” Steve slowed down to a jog, and to a halt.  
  
“Well, does it have gas?” He asked. Bucky cleared his throat.  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.” Steve raised his eyebrows. “Strong probably. 60-40.” Steve sighed. There were worse ideas.  
  
“Good enough. Where is it? I’ll drive, it’s fine.” They came upon a red pick-up covered in parking tickets, a miracle truly not to be booted yet. Bucky tossed Steve the keys and Steve fumbled to let himself in.  He sat quietly for a second, bags in the back with Luigi to guard them. Bucky frowned.  
  
“What is it? Let’s go.” Steve blinked, staring at the dashboard.  
  
“It’s stick.”  
  
“Yeah?” Bucky looked nervously up the street. “So?”  
  
“I don’t--- I have no idea how to drive this.” Bucky stared at him, mouth slack as it hit him.  
  
“Oh fuck. Fucking _hell_.” He put his head down on the glove compartment. “Are you shitting me, Steve?”  
  
“It’s not my car!” Steve floundered desperately. “You should drive your own damn car!”  
  
“Holy shit. Oh god, we’re gonna die here---”  
  
“You were gonna die in your apartment!” Steve points out, indignant now that he was under attack. “Why can’t _you_ fucking drive it?” Bucky continued to shake his head, alarm bells all sounding in his head. He didn't think he could, but---  
  
“God damn it...”  
  
“ _You_ _drive_!” Steve tore him from a spiral and Bucky slammed his good hand against the dash.  
  
“Well I’m gonna fucking _have_ to, you baby!" He cried, angry at himself. "Can’t drive a fucking stick, who raised you?”  
  
“This is New York City! Most people don’t even have licenses!” Bucky swallowed dry, pulled on the ends of his hair until he cried out in frustration, and taking one last look up the street at the billowing smoke and roar, gave over.  
  
“ _Unbelievable_!” He exclaimed, his arms up. “Shove over. I’m not going back outside.”  
  
“Oh my god---” Steve’s breath hitched ungracefully and Bucky climbed over him as he scooted into the passenger seat awkwardly. “You got this?” Steve asked, buckling himself in. It occurred to him in shades that he was being terribly insensitive to Bucky’s reluctance, or whatever psychological blockades he had in place. On the other hand, there were people with literal torches in the street and there just wasn’t time to be thoughtful. He made a note to apologize later. Bucky was the very picture of sour.  
  
“Can’t drive a stickshift, Jesus Christ... some knight in shining armour you are. Breaks into my apartment to save me and he can’t even drive the getaway car...” Bucky continued to grumble in constant stream of expletives, lurching the car into motion. He took a deep, staggering breath. “I’m driving. This is fine. I'm fine.”  
  
“Just get us out of the city,” Steve reassured him. Luigi nosed at his shoulder over the back of the sear. Bucky was whizzing down alleyways and avoiding major thoroughfares as best as he could. For not having driven in 'a while,' he certainly knew plenty of evasive maneuvers.  
  
“Going where?” He asked. Steve exhaled.  
  
“Jersey. I know somebody in Jersey. We can go there to regroup.”  
  
“You think Jersey’s gonna be safe?” Bucky asked, adjusting the mirror to check on Luigi. His ears lay flat on his head and Bucky understood the feeling mutually. He was starting to tremble, and Steve didn’t want to mention it.  
  
“Jersey’s _always_ been a lawless wasteland," he said, almost joking. Bucky huffed.   
  
“Fair point. I don’t think we should go through lower Manhattan.” Steve agreed; it would be a nightmare, or at least moreso than usual.  
  
“She’s in Elizabeth. You’ve got enough gas to get us through Staten Island.”  
  
“ _She_?” Bucky’s imagination snagged on the pronoun; he assumed Steve meant The Ex-Wife.  
  
“If she hasn’t left,” Steve clarified unhelpfully. Bucky shelved the question.  
  
“Can’t remember the last time I went to Staten Island...”  
  
“Well, this’ll probably be the last, God willing,” Steve laughed, a chuckle that blossomed into something more hysterical, and Bucky started laughing too, until the two of them were wheezing and wiping tears more out of broken tension than anything else. It was quiet then for a long time as they drove on, through stops and lights and plowing through and around whatever obstacle came up, and Bucky’s tremors intensified. Steve glanced at his knuckles on the wheel: even in the darkness he could tell they were half white with tension, and half straining metal bonds of the prosthesis. His eyes darted around him, nervously scanning. It was a scary time to be travelling, no doubt, but for Bucky it was scary just to be out. Luigi was resting his head on the seatback near him, offering a sloppy kiss check-in every so often. They were somewhere in Bull’s Head when Steve finally asked how he was holding up, and as if he cracked suddenly open, Bucky pulled into an Applebee’s parking lot, turned off the engine, and breathed out a rush of air he’d been holding in, scrubbing his good hand over his face over and over. Steve watched him and waited. He turned to Steve angrily, pouring the poison that had built up over the miles over the passenger side in a hot scald.  
  
“I don’t want your pity!” His voice was a sharp growl and Steve leaned away in automatic defense.  
  
“I wasn’t---”  
  
“And I sure as fuck didn’t need you to come rescue me, okay?” He spat, his anger colored with hurt. “I’ve been stuck with me for a long time and you’ve only had to put up with it for a few hours. Consider yourself lucky!” The lights inside the restaurant indicated that, against all odds, it was open and thriving. Steve was caught off-guard; the last thing on his mind was whatever inconvenience Bucky seemed to think he was.  
  
“Buck, you aren’t---”  
  
“Why didn’t you leave me down there?” Bucky’s voice was small and fiery, a child’s betrayal. His eyes were steely in the parking lot lights, shining. Steve’s heart jumped to his throat. “You could’ve just _gone_. And don’t say your conscience, survival doesn’t have a conscience. You should have fucking left me there!”  
  
“I---? _You_ drove us all the way to Staten Island!” He countered, weak but insistent. Bucky glared.  
  
“Lotta folks would rather be dead than go to Staten Island on a good day.” Bucky wrenched open the driver’s side door and jumped to the pavement. He let Luigi out of the back, grateful for a bathroom break.  
  
“Would you?” Steve called. Bucky paced alongside the car, lighting up a cigarette.  
  
“Would I what?”  
  
“Rather be dead.” Steve threw open his own door and stomped over to face him. “Right now.” Bucky looked him right in the eyes, acknowledging the threat with no hesitation.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Steve replied, folding his arms. “I don’t.”  
  
“You don’t know me, Steve.”  
  
“I know you’re an asshole like me," he said. Bucky huffed.  
  
“You sure fuckin’ are. Why didn’t you just let me alone? Huh? Really! I wanna know why.” In the vague overhead light his eyes were glassy and cold; he couldn't conjure a single reason himself. The question burned him up as they'd driven.  
  
“I guess I don’t know,” Steve said quietly to the ground. He hadn’t thought any of it through. The brick came through his window and he grabbed his daughter’s letter and the only thought in his head was Get Bucky and Get to Sarah. The How and the Why didn’t occur to him. “It turned out to be the right decision, didn’t it?” He asked. Bucky kneaded at his tense hand, eyeing Steve angrily.

“Remains to be seen,” he mumbled over the cigarette. Steve tried not to conjure James Dean but the guy looked like a broken 50’s rebel looking for a pair of Hollywood lips to crush. If only he were fucking agreeable.  
  
“You’ve got two weeks to see it!” Steve exclaimed. “And I don’t see how it could possibly be worse than being alone in your apartment, slowly dying anyway.” Bucky exhaled a violet cloud with a smirk.  
  
“You describing me or you?” Steve dug the red envelope out of his pocket and thrust it at Bucky. “What’s this?” He asked, though his eyes betrayed the recognition. It had spent a curious week sitting on his kitchen table. It was all he could do not to open it. Steve shrugged.  
  
“That’s from my daughter. She’s in Boston, Buck.”  
  
“You want to see your daughter," he realized.  
  
“I _need_ to see my daughter, yeah. One last time. That’s my ask. I’ll help you get anywhere you need to go. I’ll drive.” Bucky laughed, low and mirthless. “I’ll learn how. I’ll dance for gas money. Whatever you need. You’re holding the cards, Buck. You’re not an inconvenience and I’m glad you’re here and I want your help.” Bucky sat in silence next to the back tire, shakes subsiding as Luigi buried himself in his lap, overflowing. “I’m begging you as a human. As I friend, I don’t know. But I promise I will take you anywhere.” A sedan pulled up nearby and a giggly couple passed them on their way into the restaurant. Bucky watched them go.  
  
“Anywhere?” He repeated softly. Steve perked, his hope a beacon.  
  
“Anywhere! Where’s your family?” Bucky didn’t answer. He wasn't used to begging but the desperation of the years behind and days ahead caught up to Steve all at once. “You can teach me how. I’ll drive you all over the world, whatever you want. I swear to God, Bucky," he pleaded.  
  
“Must’ve been some letter.” Bucky groaned like an old tree as he got up, joints cracking. Steve snatched it back.  
  
“Yeah. If I’d gotten it sooner I wouldn’t have even been around to drag your ass out of the fire.”  
  
“Shame.”  
  
“Bucky!” Steve caught Bucky by the arm and the air stilled around them as their eyes locked. “We’re in this together now. I just want--- I just want to do this one thing. What do you want?” An answer sat at the tip of Bucky’s tongue but he swallowed it. Instead he gestured at the restaurant.  
  
“I want to eat my weight in french fries, and I’ll think about it.”  
  
“Thank you. Jesus! Thank you!” Steve flung his arms around him and Bucky staggered back a little, laughing nervously. Luigi jumped about them, barking in celebration he didn’t understand. Bucky tried not to laugh, pulling away.  
  
“Christ, buy a girl a drink first.”

* * *

As it turned out, Steve didn’t have to buy anything. This particular Applebees’ current policy was “who cares! give your waiter a kiss and your chef a high five,” and after a tense evening, Steve was more than happy to do the social interaction for both of them. Bucky looked particularly relieved to sit furthest in the booth from the action: the restaurant was nothing short of a party scene and he was not up to playing along. The servers were all rolling, if not just permanently stoned, and very elaborate experimental dishes were pouring out of the kitchen en masse. Steve wondered if he and Bucky luckily picked a good time to be there or if the Applebee's was just going to continue to turn it up to 11 until they literally ran out of food and drinks. Bucky’s mountain of french fries came with seven dips, grilled pineapple, and a whole ribeye steak that he diligently wrapped in a cloth napkin to take out to Luigi. They hadn't spoken; it didn't seem like small talk was necessary in a world where all relationships, new and old, had an immediate expiration. Steve smiled over his bright blue cocktail that came in a literal flower vase as Bucky tucked the piece of meat in his jacket pocket.  
  
“For your baby?” He asked. Bucky laughed, for the first time since entering the restaurant and immediately feeling overwhelmed. It loosened him at the laces.  
  
“If anything, I’m _his_ baby. He’s like the nanny dog in Peter Pan,” he replied. “If animals could talk I’d have to have Luigi whacked for knowing too much.”  
  
“Ah yes. I think I read a Vox article on the rise in dog informants within organized crime syndicates,” Steve grinned, pushing up his glasses. “How old is he?”  
  
“A billion. I don’t know.” Bucky wound a piece of his hair around two fingers idly. “He feels like an ancient wandering spirit trapped in a bear suit.” A young woman staggered over and put a dessert on the table that looked like a gingerbread house made of brownie pieces. It was lined with M &M’s. Bucky picked them off by color and popped them into his mouth. Steve politely turned the girl away when she started to run her hands through his hair in a blown-out daze.  
  
“He’s a good dog,” Steve agreed.  
  
“He’s the _best_ dog.”  
  
“I haven’t met all the other ones so I’ll take your word for it.” Steve began to deconstruct the house, shoving an entire brownie into his face and raising his eyebrows when Bucky couldn’t help but look impressed.  
  
“You ever had a pet?” He asked. Steve covered his mouth while he spoke through chocolate.  
  
“I had a fat bunny growing up."  
  
“Incredible!” Bucky said, imagining a small Steve with a huge floppy bunny. “What happened to it?” Steve stopped chewing.  
  
“He was fat, and we ate him.” Bucky’s face dropped.  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“I am very serious,” Steve said, swallowing with a gulp of blue drink.  
  
“What, was he a 4H bunny or something?” Bucky asked. Steve nodded.  
  
“Won me a ribbon at the county fair.” He started laughing, then, and so did Bucky.  
  
“Oh my god,” he winced. The image of the tiny sun-kissed child, blonde hair in his face instead of perfectly poofed like Steve's, stuttered in Bucky's mind. He was no longer holding that floppy rabbit. Steve hummed, remembering.  
  
“And a ten dollar gift certificate to the Radio Shack.”   
  
“Oh my god!”  
  
“I bought three different kinds of batteries.” Bucky lost his mind and nearly knocked over his margarita.  
  
“Oh my god!” He cried. “Why?” Steve shrugged, wiping what might have been a stray tear.  
  
“It seemed like a good idea,” he said honestly. Bucky gawked.  
  
“Oh my god. You’re so---”  
  
“What?” Steve asked, smile fading. Bucky caught himself.  
  
“I don’t know,” he covered. Steve snorted.  
  
“Yes, you do,” he replied, bitter and bold. “Quaint? Pathetic? Boring?”  
  
“Precious.” It would have been a reasonable response but he said it without a hint of irony, like something you protect. Steve felt his cheeks coloring, and he ducked behind embarrassment. Bucky’s heart fell down a staircase in his body and landed somewhere on the main floor in a heap of clumsy red. Steve might have seen it if he were looking. Instead he crumpled a straw wrapper with his hands and slid out of the booth.  
  
“Talkin’ too much,” he muttered with half a sad smile. “Let’s get dinner out to your baby, huh?”

* * *

Bucky shuffled behind Steve in the parking lot, unsure how to proceed. Steve had shown him some secret card just then. Steve was a good guy, he reckoned. He was decent. He managed, after all, to wrench him out and give him more time when there wasn’t really any left to go around. His mind wandered: Steve wasn’t dressed for the end of days. The guy wore khakis and a soft sweater like he meant to look through the New Fiction section with a local coffee on his way to sending a real letter in the mail. Bucky always wore layers, always ready to leave even though his mind never let him. For the first time in however long, he’d been able to. Uprooted, soil still clinging to his wobbling legs. Steve didn’t know that. Steve didn’t know much of anything about him. But Bucky knew about the rabbit. He decided to share something in return.  
  
“The Grand Canyon,” he said as they approached. Luigi was napping in the truck bed.  
  
“Hm?” Steve turned to face him, and Bucky stood awkwardly three paces behind, hands in his pockets and eyes on Steve.  
  
“That’s where I want to go,” he said.  
  
“That’s in Arizona,” Steve pointed out, hiking himself into the truck bed.  
  
“I _know_ that,” Bucky asserted. “That’s where I want to go.” Steve frowned.  
  
“Are there people there, or---”  
  
“That’s where I want to go, Steve.” He stood there staring, and Steve nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “No questions asked. I’ll take you there.” Bucky narrowed his eyes.  
  
“ _It’s in Arizona,_ ” he imitated snottily. Steve huffed.  
  
“I can and I will,” he retorted. There was silence in the parking lot for a moment. “I know someone with a plane.” Bucky’s eyes must have bugged out of his head because Steve laughed.  
  
“You’re shitting me. I thought--- I missed all the planes,” he said dumbly, voice softening. Steve shook his head resolutely.  
  
“I know a plane. If we get to the plane, you get to the Grand Canyon,” Steve said, determined now and over-excited. “And you get a Grand Canyon, and you get a Grand Canyon. Everybody, look under your chairs!” Bucky was howling with laughter by now, and Steve just kept going with his Oprah impression until they’d both dissolved in stitches, not-so-subtly waking Luigi.  
  
“Oh, _mein Schätzchen,_ ” Bucky cooed, rushing to his cranky dog. “Steven, you’ve broken _das pupper-snooze!_ ”  
  
“Tell him a bedtime story,” Steve offered, leaning back on his elbows as his feet dangled off the edge of the truck bed. Bucky nestled Luigi back into the old blanket he’d made his bed, smoothing his ears and kissing him between his sleepy eyes as he offered him the steak from dinner.  
  
“The Grand Canyon National Park,” he began, as if recalling a fairy tale, “is over a million acres. Do you know how big one acre is, Luigi?” The dog’s ears raised in attentive triangles; he did not but boy was he ready to learn whatever accompanied that steak. “An acre is already pretty big. An acre’s like---” Bucky pointed across the parking lot into the darkness. “Bigger than a football field. A million football fields. Can you even wrap your little mind around that? If you filled it with pop you’d be sick before you even started. The rock at the bottom is over 1.8 billion years old. Those rocks have seen it all, and they never left. Orange and red and bone white bleached on a hot afternoon, and violet and copper as the sun sets over the rim and dips down into the cliffs. You can look up and grab the Milky Way with your own hands, it’s so close, but you can’t see the hand in front of your face for the darkness.” A sleepy and slow honey slur coated his voice and warmed Steve to the core. He smiled, calm and fond, as he closed his eyes. The images filled his head like a full-color magazine as Bucky described them, rolling out over the blank spaces where hope used to live and had bowed out in slow minutes over the last five years along with Sharon and Sarah and everyone else. As ever without knowing the how or the why, he promised himself they would make it.  
  
“What?” Bucky tore Steve from his reverie; apparently he’d said that last part out loud.  
  
“Nothing,” he covered quickly, “it’s too cold to sleep out here. We should bring him in.” He propelled himself to the ground and opened the back door to lie down. Bucky and Luigi followed suit, curling under his leather jacket across the front bench seat. Steve stared up at the cabin ceiling. They’d come far enough away from the city to be safe, in relative terms. Bucky had really pushed himself; that much was clear. It sank like stones in Steve’s stomach, to think he put someone unwillingly through psychological pain, if that’s what it was. He wasn’t used to a survival setting. But then, he didn’t imagine anyone really was. It shone a harsh light on how numb and complacent his bubble had become. The list of his life’s worth was pale, and all that was left was Sarah, and, comically, the Grand Canyon and this grumpy war vet that happenstance threw at him. He dragged this poor man down with him: one final selfish act in a lifetime of them. In the quiet, the ticking of his watch thundered in merciless reminder. Every second was the last of its kind. They always had been, and Steve never stopped to acknowledge it. Tick tick tick, up in the air and gone forever and what did you do, Steve? What can you do? What will you do? What won’t you get to do? Steve? Steve? He opened the car door and threw the watch into the dirt.  
  
His ears strained to find Bucky’s breathing in the front seat, steady and soft, a new anchor. He counted them in pairs until his brain quieted.  
  
“Steve?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You okay?” The whisper hung there. “In general. Just--- wondering.” Steve hesitated. There was no reason in the world left to be anything but truthful.  
  
“I don’t know,” he said.  
  
“Right,” Bucky said after a moment. “Me too.” Quiet again, until: "I'm sorry about your bunny."   
  
It was an apology that stood for several other things, and Steve smiled curiously in the dark, for this odd adventure and his unwilling companion.  
  
"Thanks, Buck."

* * *

Sleep came, mercifully, eventually. The night passed. Steve woke, some odd hours later unchecked, to Luigi landing full-force on his diaphragm, Bucky’s broken laughter, and the sun rising as always, as if it didn’t know any better. He didn’t feel hopeful, but for the first time in too long, he wanted to, and that was a start as good as any.


	3. A Soft Place to Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure: I neither speak Russian nor drive stick, so please don't try either of those based on anything you learn here.

He didn’t share it come morning, but a dream came sometime in the night that stole the air from Steve’s lungs like a shadow sickness. He would come to blame the alcohol as the sun rose higher, but it stuck with him all day, like trouble. Like Bucky. He was standing in a shallow river bed, the dream’s frame focused on wavering clear water rushing over his bare feet and smooth stones. They were every imaginable color, striking reds and purples and whites like the scales of fish shining under the water and sun, and the water was so cool in its haste to move past him. He wiggled his toes and realized they weren’t his, but tiny, porcelain. They were Sarah’s. She looked down into the water around her feet and feeling displaced but present he held her hands, worried now that the beautiful place might hold some danger, the kind of outdoor danger that children found without trying. A slip, a fall, a knock, a cut, blood, bruise, tears, could follow, any time. He worried his grip was too tight, might hurt, too loose, might lose. She giggled and noticed a fish. The world was empty but for the river, the child, the hands. But the water began to rise. It rose perfectly steadily, and Steve was somehow aware that it was conspiratorially scheduled. It would rise a centimeter a second. It would hit her knees by the end of this thought, her waist. She didn’t notice. He turned to pull her back to the shore but it was gone for the water, and in a camera shift Sarah was gone. He looked around wildly but the water rose as if she’d never been there. Instead he felt it around his ears and eyes and over his head until he was looking up from the bottom at the sky above the water’s surface, and he thought to himself, this is enough water to fill the Grand Canyon. And he thought, sinking still, he didn’t have anyone to tell, if he knew what to say. That feeling dogged him from a mindful corner as Bucky unclipped his seat belt and took the key from the ignition, beginning what would be the first of however many attempts it would take to teach Steve how to drive.

“It’s gonna be a walk in the park,” Bucky assured him. “Easy as cake.”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher, Buck, I know patronizing sugar-coating when I hear it,” Steve sighed. “And sidebar: it’s piece of cake and easy as pie.” Bucky shrugged.

“Whatever. English isn’t my first language," he said offhandedly. Steve didn't have time to process. "Ready to go?” Bucky asked. Steve hesitated.

“Do one more go-round so I can watch.” They’d moved the pickup one parking lot over to an abandoned outlet mall. After taking some pancakes to-go from the Applebee’s that seemingly never closed, Bucky was determined to hand driving responsibilities over to Steve. The morning sun slanted just so and he flipped his visor down against it. The tank was blessedly three-quarters full, and with Steve’s safe-house friend not too far off, the day seemed laid out quite nicely ahead of them. All it needed was for its captain, the probable-beefcake wrapped in a frustratingly shapeless sweater who couldn’t drive, to pick up his mantle. That unwilling captain’s forehead knitted together with something stretching between concern and anger and Bucky snapped his fingers in front of his face.

“You watching close? Watch my feet,” Bucky instructed. Steve didn’t have to be told twice; even without the stick and its seemingly hieroglyphic pattern of gears, there was the pedals to reckon with, and that seemed the most likely thing to go wrong.

“Tell me which they are again,” Steve said, watching. Bucky’s left foot wiggled on the furthest left pedal. It would have been cute if Steve wasn’t so absolutely sure he was going to crash this truck right into a lamp post the second he got behind the wheel and cut these last days on earth even shorter.

“This is the clutch.”

“Clutch,” Steve repeated. “Right. The different one.”

“Do you want to give it a little name? Like Clementine or something?” Bucky asked, the corner of his lip turning up at what Steve could irritably tell was hidden amusement at his expense.

“Clementine? What are you, an old gold prospector?” Steve arched an eyebrow. Bucky pressed down on the clutch.

“I thought you kindergarten-types liked memory tools.”

“That song’s about a girl falling into a river, isn’t it?” Steve cocked his head. He quieted the memory of his dream, and seemed to remember Wade loving that son. Wade loved creepy children’s things. Steve felt a far-off pang somewhere; how were Wade’s last days? The worry vanished as soon as it came on. Wade found fun without trying.

“Or a small orange, but why sugar-coat it,” Bucky retorted. “Clutch. Hold her all the way down, turn the ignition. Good?”

“Good.”

“Great. The pedal next door is the break. Just like your car.” It was nothing like Steve’s car. Steve imagined himself there now: the soft seats, the regulated temperature, the classical music hosted by a soothing elderly gentleman who secretly loved film scores. Instead, here he was in a relic pick-up truck like A Girl In a Country Song trying desperately to keep up without getting distracted by how sweet and slow Bucky’s teacher-voice was. Bucky continued obliviously. “Pedal two houses down is the accelerator. Clutch, break, accelerator. Good?” Bucky checked in and Steve met his glance, nodding.

“Good.”

“Great. Keep ol’ Clem down, and start revving RPMs. See that? You gas at the same rate you’re going to start easing up on that clutch and work up to a switch from first to second. Like so.” He eased out and Steve watched the RPM’s building up. “Get to 3,000 and we’re gonna be totally off the clutch now and go for the switch, where we lay off the gas and engage the clutch again and then the gear shift.” The car smoothly moved forward as he jogged the stick shift into a new position and then went back to the accelerator. “And you’re driving. Same situation of easing back between the clutch and your accelerator. And the gears are drawn in the little picture here for when we want to go up to three like this,” he did, driving faster and turning down a new lane of empty parking spaces, “and we’re really moving now. Ta-da!” Bucky’d never thought of it as a particular skill; it was just a necessity growing up. Steve watched him like he was working through the mathematical proof that would end world hunger or send them instantaneously to the moon: a cocktail of what read as admiration and fear and fascination. It played on his face like attraction, if Bucky were deciding to decode it that way, but he certainly wasn’t trying to think such things about some little girl’s father, because that would be inappropriate and improbable. Steve cleared his throat.

“What about stopping? And reversing?”

“Reversing like any other gear. Stopping, like this.” Bucky demonstrated downshifting until they were stopped and Steve tapped his fingers nervously on his knees. “Good?” Luigi’s tail hit the seat rhythmically in back every time he heard Bucky say that magic word. He wondered what this stranger was doing to be called good so liberally. Steve tried to commit the motion of Bucky’s feet in their easy grace to memory.

“If you say so,” he said.

“I do. Switch.”

“Are you--- I mean are you _absolutely sure_ you don’t want to keep driving, since you’re so good at it?” Steve offered. “I’m not worried about embarrassing myself, honest, I’m worried about killing us.” Bucky laughed and sighed heavily. He threaded silver fingers through his dark hair absently, leaning on the open window.  
  
“Not a lot of point to preserving my dignity here so I’ll just say it. I have seventy-five percent of the working, trustworthy human limbs it takes to drive this vehicle, and one unreliable hunk of metal. I used to visualize it locking up and panicking while I ran over some kid or a postal worker or a deer and I couldn’t---” Bucky’s face contorted as he remembered the first few times he’d tried to drive with the prosthetic. It wasn’t so much that it was naturally awkward but that this particular car required more than a passing confidence in your body’s ability to react quickly. His mind would cloud with worry and noise and effectively shut him down.  
  
“I read you. Fair point, scary,” Steve conceded, words tumbling to stop Bucky from reliving the anxiety. Bucky reflexively rubbed the pads of his fingers over the plate joints, catching on edges. It was a pleasing sensation, if hurtful, and grounding.  
  
“It _is_ scary,” he said, scraping mindlessly, red echoes in his skin. “It’s attached to me and even I think it’s scary.”  
  
“Not your arm!” Steve felt desperate to distance himself from that idea. He heard the voices of the kids at school in his mind as they made fun of a girl with a leg brace, remembered how surprising he found their cruelty (though he quickly shut it down,) and how it crippled her resolve even to be reminded of her shortcomings. Bucky wore that look, of a child betrayed by their own body. “Not your arm at all. Just--- the feeling.” His face colored. “Trusting yourself to be capable. I know that feeling.”  
  
“Uh huh.” Bucky sat perfectly still, a thought settling, until he suddenly threw open the door and hopped to the pavement. “Switch.”  
  
“Yessir.” They passed each other in front of the hood and neither met the other’s eyes. The driver’s seat was warm, and Steve didn’t think that was something he would validate as an interesting aside but his brain focused in on it like a homing missile. Quickly he looked to Bucky. “Should I turn it on?”  
  
“You should. Romance is important,” Bucky shrugged, the metaphor clear to him and slightly unnerving to Steve. “Now, which pedal is which?”  
  
“You went over this several times,” Steve pointed out, avoiding the question.  
  
“Sure did,” Bucky said. “So which pedal is which?”  
  
“This is brake. And the accelerator. And,” Steve frowned, placing his left foot very carefully on the furthest pedal, “the clutch.” Bucky stared him down.  
  
“That’s not her name.” Steve’s head hit the wheel.  
  
“Oh my god...”  
  
“What’s her name?” Bucky demanded, slyly folding his arms. “Be respectful to your girl, Steve, don’t embarrass me here.” The new driver re-positioned his feet and grumbled. Bucky leaned in playfully. “Hm? What was that?”  
  
“I said Clem!” Steve barked. Luigi grumbled low in the backseat.  
  
“That’s right,” Bucky beamed, pleased.  
  
“Can I drive now?”  
  
“I don’t know, pal, let’s find out. All the way down. Don’t have to be gentle with her just now.”  
  
“Don’t make it weird,” Steve muttered, pressing down the clutch. “Now I rev?” Bucky nodded.  
  
“Rev her up til you hit the sweet spot and then release and fly.”  
  
“I said don’t make it weird!”  
  
“ _You’re_ making it weird!” The car jerked and stalled. Steve sighed exasperatedly.  
  
“You made it weird! You made it fucking weird!” He exclaimed. Bucky put up his hands in defense.  
  
“It’s not weird! It’s a common analogy! Have you never like, loved a--- thing? Loved?”  
  
“ _Loved a thing?_ What are you even saying, Buck?"  
  
“Like--- a man or a woman or like---” Bucky tried to explain himself but Steve's frustration got the better of him; he wasn't used to failing. He was, however, used to fighting.  
  
“I have a fucking _child_ , this isn’t birds and bees---”  
  
“If you’ve been in love you can drive stick shift!” Bucky insisted. Steve fumed.  
  
“I--- that’s a rude thing to say! Or insinuate! Or--- I get the stupid analogy! _Have you ever loved a thing._ It’s driving! I understand how to do it I’m just not good at it! Okay? It has nothing to do with your--- this is a stupid metaphor! Okay?” There was quiet in the cabin for a moment and Luigi stuck his head over the bench seat in effort to intervene. "Sorry, Luigi," Steve grumbled. "I fucked it up."  
  
“Steve,” Bucky moved like he wanted to put a hand on his shoulder but withdrew. “Try again. You can try again.” Steve glared at him. “I swear to god I’m talking about driving.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Steve hissed. "Because we're talking about how I also wasn't a good lover to my wife?"  
  
“No! Jesus fuck," Bucky groused. "Leave your shit out of this, I'm sorry I even brought it up, okay? Let’s just--- take a deep breath, focus, and try again. Are we going to switch off throwing tantrums on this road trip or what?”  
  
“Sure, keep things nice and easy,” Steve grumbled. Bucky laughed.  
  
“Just like driving stick. Nice and easy. Try again. They have us do shit like this at the VA sessions all the time," he admitted. "Over and over. Just do it again. You’re getting a taste of how fucking frustrating it is to go to therapy.”  
  
“I’ve been to therapy.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“To see a therapist.” Steve lifted gently off the clutch now and the car rolled easily forward. Bucky whooped with joy.  
  
“You’re doing it! This is it! You did it!” Steve laughed shakily.  
  
“The car is moving,” he said cautiously.  
  
“HE DID IT!” Bucky roared out the open window. “STEVE IS DRIVING A CAR!”  
  
“STEVE CAN DO ANYTHING!” Steve yelled, and on cue the car jerked and stalled. Bucky winced. “Shit!”  
  
“That--- that can happen. That happens all the time. No shame.” He watched Steve’s face carefully; he was vibrating with rage. But eventually he started laughing, and they moved on.

* * *

Natasha’s house was an hour by distance away, but Steve was very happy to stay right around thirty miles an hour. He would stall six more times before they would pull into the driveway, and by that time he could navigate at least three gears and stopping. Bucky fed him two pancakes, rolled into fat cake cigarettes, over the course of the next uncountable miles. Luigi got used to the jerking between gears, and to not being, for once, the only source of Bucky’s most honest smile. They listened to Steve’s favorite radio station, The Man Who Didn’t Care Anymore. He was currently playing the entire soundtrack to _Amelie_.  
  
“Bucky?” Steve finally asked, his words dancing through the pleasant calliope of the accompaniment. Bucky snapped to face him.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve replied quickly. Bucky settled back into his seat. “I’ve just been thinking about this for fifty miles. What was your first language?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You said English wasn’t your first language. I said it was piece of cake, and you said English wasn’t---”  
  
“Oh.” Bucky frowned at the lie; he didn’t think Steve took him so seriously. “I mean it was, but I learned a lot of others. I like Russian better. And German.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Drive the car, Steve.”  
  
“Say something in Russian,” Steve pressed, keeping his eyes on the road. Bucky closed his.  
  
“Води машину, Солнышко.” The words rolled sweet and soft. Steve hummed his approval.  
  
“What does that mean?” He asked.  
  
“It means drive the car, Steve.” Steve smiled, running over the syllables in his mind. They crumbled under the weight of his miscomprehension, sounding more wrong and more meaningless with every repetition, the way his mother used to sing lullabies in Irish that would stick to his dreams in soft puffs like dandelion fluff to his kids’ socks in the springtime when they came in from recess, loud and happy. Just letters strung together, on purpose.  
  
“Sol-nish-ko,” he repeated softly. “That sounds nice. Is that my name?”  
  
“Kind of,” Bucky shrugged, looking out at the passing houses. The breeze was flooding in through the cabin and it was actually a beautiful day. Luigi was resting his head peacefully on the back window and Bucky felt like doing the same. Steve laughed.   
  
“You could be telling me to fuck off and I wouldn’t know.”  
  
“I wasn’t.” They were turning down a driveway toward a fairly nondescript house and Steve swallowed whatever sweet moment they’d shared to slow down and pull into the grass of the short front lawn, very pleased he had stopped the car with little to no fuss if slightly off the mark. He never would have pictured himself here, behind a manual transmission car with a handsome if grumbly schlub and his dog on a side streets in Jersey. He couldn’t remember the last time he learned a new skill. The adrenaline was impressive. He sat for a moment looking up at the house through the windshield. Bucky took the place in.  
  
“This is the safehouse?” He asked. Steve nodded. “It doesn’t look that safe.” Steve shook his head.  
  
“Not above ground, maybe?"  
  
“There’s a below ground?” Bucky asked, craning his head to look at the garage. Luigi excitedly made loops in the backseat, ready to explore.  
  
“It’s got a bunker.”  
  
“Holy shit,” Bucky marveled. “Why?”  
  
“She calls it her den. But it can withstand a bomb, so I choose not to call it a den," Steve replied, remembering when Natasha and Clint built it, claiming it was just a throwback to the Atomic Age. Bucky seemed intrigued.  
  
“Who is she? A Bond girl?”  
  
“An old friend. Just be polite and don’t stare at her tits,” Steve warned, opening the driver’s side door.  
  
“Who says I have a hangup about tits?” Bucky scoffed, stepping out his own and opening Luigi to give him free rein on the grass. “I have no trouble communicating with tits if I have to.”  
  
“This the kind of guy you bring to my house, Rogers?” A woman in a plaid flannel shirt was on the front porch, arms folded loosely in curiosity. “A tits-whisperer?” Steve slammed his door and mirrored her posture.  
  
“Special skills are commodities in an End of the World scenario. Of all people, you should know that, Nat.” The woman smiled.  
  
“I see yours now include stickshift and ruining lawns,” she quipped. “By my count that puts you at two if we’re not counting emotional repression. Then it’s a cool trio.” Steve snorted. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
  
“I need help and I wanted to say goodbye to you,” Steve said bluntly. “New York isn’t safe anymore.”  
  
“I told you that when I called," the woman pointed out.  
  
“You were right, if it matters any more. I’ll let you have it.”  
  
“I was right?” Natasha echoed, craning her head. Steve held out his hands in concession, nodding. “No fight?" She pouted. "That’s not the asshole I know.”  
  
“Sometimes I’m not an asshole, but ignorance is bliss and I’d hate for you to die unhappy, so fuck you, I guess," Steve said through a smirk, approaching the porch.  
  
“There he is.” Steve hugged her briefly and she watched Bucky over his shoulder. “You going to introduce me?”  
  
“Natasha Romanoff, this is my, uh---” he looked at Bucky for a moment, suddenly stricken with the idea that they were no longer neighbors and only hopefully friends. Bucky stood there, shyly clinging to the side of the truck, and Steve saw him differently. He looked formidable, a solid wall of being, as tall as Steve but held more tightly together. His eyes warned from a distance, the way a wild animal doesn't know how to trust when asked. But he trusted Steve, and that thought rattled him. “This is Bucky Barnes,” Steve finally recovered. “And his dog Luigi. My travel companions.”  
  
“Heard you have a bunker,” Bucky said, extending his good hand slowly as he approached. He was putting on cool, and Nat could tell. She shook hands.  
  
“I have a den," she corrected.  
  
“I heard that, too,” Bucky retorted. “We’re going to the Grand Canyon.”  
  
“Cute.” She looked from Steve to Bucky and back. “Guess I invite you in?”  
  
“Please,” Steve quickly interjected. “Just a bed for the night while we plan. I need to get to Boston first.” Natasha’s eyebrows twitched in betrayal of recognition and she nodded.  
  
“Just one bed?” She asked pointedly. Bucky stared at her.  
  
“Yeah. For Luigi. We sleep in the nude in the backyard.” Steve felt his cheeks coloring with fiery immediacy. Natasha blinked placidly.  
  
“It’s the end of the world, honey,” she said, turning and walking up the front steps without looking back. “If not now...”  
  
“He’s joking!” Steve cut in. “He’s truly joking. We’re not---”  
  
“Sounds like you have lots to talk about on this road trip,” Natasha said. “I make no apologies for Clint.”  
  
“Why would you apologize for---”  
  
“Holy shit, is this your boyfriend? Steve, I’m so happy for ya.” Clint breezed past Steve in the entryway, clapping him on the back, and went straight for Bucky. Natasha shrugged when Steve turned to her in a panic.  
  
“I make no apologies,” she repeated. Steve worried that Bucky’s anxiety would kick in, but instead he extended his hand and played along. He seemed almost more comfortable playing out the lie than coming clean.  
  
“That’s me. Bucky Barnes, beautiful boyfriend.” Clint was as always dressed for that cinematic moment halfway through a Sunday nap that the phone rings and the doritos go flying; Steve perpetually imagined him in that tableau.  
  
“Clint Barton. Quite a grip on you, beautiful.”  
  
“You should shake the other one, it’ll grind ya to powder," Bucky joked, a strange lilt to his voice that skirted along the way Men Talking Football At the Barbecue skits went on variety shows.  
  
“Jesus Christ, that’s wild,” Clint said, looking over his shoulder at a bewildered Steve. “You want a beer?”  
  
“Yes,” Natasha said through a smile that was only for Steve. “Let’s all have a beer. Steve and I will go get our guests’ bags.” Clint led Bucky through the house into the foyer, his hand guiding his guest’s shoulder like they were old friends.  
  
”You a vet? Heads up: she has a lot of weaponry if that’s triggering for you,” Clint said, suddenly sober. “Pun not intended but pretty good all the same, I’ll admit.” Steve’s stomach dropped as he watched them go; that wasn’t something he had even considered.  
  
“I’ll be okay. Thanks,” Bucky said. “My aim may have suffered over the years, though.” Steve must have visibly shown his relief, because Natasha snorted and nudged him with her elbow.  
  
“How long?” She asked, now safely out of earshot. Steve bristled.  
  
“No, Natasha.”  
  
“Okay, whatever you say,” she said, shutting the front door behind them. “I’m just curious when it happened.”  
  
“ _Nothing_ happened!” Steve snapped. Natasha was a strategist in all things and Steve hated that she knew how to needle him. It was playful, as it was in the old days, but he found he no longer could keep up quite as well as he used to. He blamed years of limiting interactions to children.  
  
“I can tell nothing’s happened, but I’m guessing it won’t be long before it _does_ ,” she winked grotesquely and Steve groaned. He grabbed his duffel and Bucky’s backpack from the back seat. "I remember Phil before Sharon. Keep an open mind."  
  
“We’re just--- victims of circumstance. Barely even friends,” he admitted. It really felt that way, at moments, but for all that, he hadn’t made a friend as close as Bucky already was in the last five years, at least. “You can’t just look at two people standing next to each other and read into it like there’s something there.”  
  
“I’m just giving you a hard time. Haven’t seen you since Sharon left," she pointed out, re-opening the wound. Natasha had been in the wedding party. Natasha had bought Sarah her first book. She was there for all of it, and heavily invested in the future of their family. Steve wondered if she didn't feel some kind of betrayal that they couldn't keep it together.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“How’s that going?” She asked. Steve shrugged.  
  
“I understand why she did it, but I want to see Sarah again. No hard feelings," he found himself saying. He didn't know if that was entirely true. Natasha watched him for tells.  
  
“Oh? That’s very adult of you.”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“Steve. It’s the end of the world. Be a little impolite,” she punched him in the shoulder. Steve laughed, hitching his bag over his shoulder.  
  
“Too many years censoring myself. I don’t know if I can.”  
  
“Maybe _Bucky_ can teach you. He saved his porn stash?” She asked coyly, pulling Bucky’s magazines, unsolicited, from the backpack. Steve grabbed them away and zipped the pack shut.  
  
“Those are his travel magazines, and mind your own business!” He smoothed the fabric of the old backpack, knowing what it meant to Bucky and taking great care with that confidence. Natasha didn't fail to notice.  
  
“Hey,” Nat put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Chill, Rogers. I just miss you.”  
  
“You miss teasing me," he pointed out. She conceded that point; she did love that.  
  
“I _do_ miss teasing you.”  
  
“In the spirit of the end of the world, in return for your hospitality, I grant you full teasing rights for twenty-four hours," he offered affectionately, "but do not involve Bucky, he’s not---”  
  
“No deal," she cut in.  
  
“You just met the guy! Give him a break!”  
  
“No, I mean---” Natasha stopped on the porch, turning to face him without raising her eyes. She hesitated. “Will you--- stay? A little longer?” Steve felt his heart pull towards her, suddenly small.  
  
“Nat---”  
  
“Clint’s just been stir-crazy, you know?” She floundered. “He’s clearly so happy to see another human. He’s worse than Lucky. I just think it would be nice to spend some time. He needs that, you know, he just needs people around.” In a moment he didn’t see a survivalist with an impenetrable bunker and resolve, nor did he see the bloodthirsty young woman on campus who got entire frat houses disbanded for rape allegations without ever disclosing any identities to the media. The girl who dragged him from his dorm to see the snow falling when he was spiraling, who got him his first date with Sharon by virtue of being the best wingman on earth. She was those things, she was fiercely just and cool, but just now she was as scared and lonely as any human could be facing a ticking clock. Steve set the bags down against the door and pulled her tight against him.  
  
“We’ve got time,” he said. “Don’t worry.” It was true and in a sense it wasn’t, but really that was all they could give each other, and at the very least they had as many moments right now as ever, and he held her a little longer.


	4. First Date/Last Night

Passing through the house, Steve remembered moving Clint and Natasha in, turning that very corner with a red floral couch that Sam had called “the Fiestaware of sofas” and Clint thought it was a compliment. Steve thought it was insane to buy a foreclosure that would need a full renovation and doubly so they wanted to live together at all. Natasha worked in perfects, absolutes, and precisons, and Clint kind of colored wherever the crayons felt happiest. Together they somehow intensified each others’ proclivities and existed in some kind of symbiotic harmony that nobody would dare explain. You couldn’t see it until you caught them holding each other, and then you couldn’t imagine any alternative.   
  
Clint toned Natasha down, and Natasha made Clint put on full shirts twice a week.    
  
It was in the foyer that Steve found himself looking more closely at their framed photos than he had before. A snapshot of some camping vacation, working together on the house renovations, and shot after shot of Lucky, their endlessly happy dog.    
  
Steve realized with a weird pang that none of his more tangible mementos made it out of the apartment. He had his letter from Sarah in his pocket and two days worth of clothes and somehow, inexplicably, his conditioner but not his shampoo, his toothpaste but not his brush, whatever seemed crucial for immediate departure in that moment. His photos, memories, diplomas, home videos… they were gone. It didn’t feel particularly upsetting; he felt lighter for it. The decision had been made for him and there was only forward to move. He was existing fine without any of these hallmarks. He carried the experiences in his body and that would have to be enough. He was the memento of all who came before him and all they did. And he would be the last of every family line. There was no obligation to leave any token for anyone. Every bit of it was absorbed in him and that was the end and destination of every photo ever taken for posterity. It was an odd power to realize while staring at a bronze-framed photo of a dog in a sombrero.    
  
But Bucky brought his magazines, Steve realized, because he didn’t have the experiences he could carry, would want to carry.    
  
He wondered what memories Bucky knowingly left behind. He wondered if they were recently abandoned or were the patient, purposeful work of years. Steve had a lot of questions about Bucky and not nearly enough time to find out.    
  
Nat waited for him at the end of the hall, gesturing to an open room.    
  
“Guest room. One bed. Do you---”   
  
“He can have it,” Steve said too quickly. Natasha’s lips curled. “He’s a vet, so. Yknow. It’s respectful.”   
  
“Sure. I’d respect that ass for hours,” she purred, and Steve cuffed her on the shoulder as he passed. “You can’t tell me it’s not an excellent ass. You’re not a lying man, Steven.” Natasha waited for a response but Steve set Bucky’s bag on the bed without budging. “It’s the end of days and integrity is all you have. Admit it. Say it out loud.” Steve groused. She would only continue, and he granted her one small concession.   
  
“He has a great ass,” he said, low as his voice would go. Natasha cackled as she took two guest towels from a small closet and tossed them at him.    
  
“There is so much left to enjoy, Rogers.” The thought hung in the air and was suddenly pierced with a dull shatter. Bucky’s voice came muffled from the backyard.    
  
“Sorry! Sorry---”    
  
Natasha went to the window and drew back the curtain from the sliding door, revealing Bucky and Clint chatting on the back patio. Bucky’d dropped his beer and Luigi was hovering uselessly, anxious, as his owner carefully picked up large pieces of glass. Natasha sized him up.    
  
“He’s a big dope, isn’t he.”   
  
“He’s a lot of things,” Steve relented as she slid open the glass door. “Big dope is definitely one of the top three.” No sooner did he say it than did Bucky look up suddenly and fumble a piece of the bottle as he caught sight of Steve. The glass slid through his hand with a streak of blood. Steve lurched forward instinctively. He stopped just an inch short of Bucky, his hands a breath away and poised to seize him.   
  
“Fuck. Uh. You alright?” He asked dumbly as he realized the grown man was standing otherwise still and Clint and Natasha were watching with what one might call Smug Satisfaction. “Sorry, teacher’s instinct. You’re fine. Right? You’re fine?” Bucky’s eyebrows knit imperceptibly.   
  
“Yeah. Clint said he could get us into the movie theater, that’s all. Just got excited.” Bucky’s hand was welling with beads of red, held in a claw in front of him but no pain on his face. Luigi barked sharply. “It’s fine,” he said to both of them. Steve was pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket.    
  
“Even in the last days on earth you’re a man of the past,” Clint said with affection, with regard to the gesture, as Bucky took the white fabric as delicately as his prosthetic would allow. He looked up at Steve, hesitant to ruin it, but Steve pressed it carefully into the cut, soaking it in so it wouldn’t drip through the house. Natasha threw a glance at Clint, who smirked. “Nat can stitch you if we need. No sweat, I do it all the time.”   
  
“Thanks,” Bucky said. “Sorry to waste a good beer.” Clint held Lucky and Luigi back by their collars to keep from the glass debris, laughing at their strength. He picked up a tennis ball and took off running toward the lawn and both dogs happily followed him.    
  
“I’ll get a broom. Don’t sweat it, it’s not the end of the world,” Natasha said without even realizing. “Show him where the bathroom is, Rogers. There’s a first-aid kit under the sink. We can go to that theater tonight,” her words trailed off as she disappeared in the house and Steve sighed heavily. If the escapism of matchmaking was going to make Natasha happy in their last day together, he’d let her have it. It couldn’t do any harm and so far, Bucky didn’t seem to be bothered. In the bathroom, he sat on the edge of the tub. Steve rummaged around until he produced the first aid kid, which was stocked with excess bandages.   
  
“Nat tends to hoard and Clint’s constantly doing something stupid---” Steve stopped short when he realized Bucky was gripping the white fabric so tightly that his fist was shaking. “Hey, ease up.” Steve took the hand in his. “You trying to self-cauterize with your own force here?”    
  
“Can I ask you something dumb?” Bucky asked, looking up suddenly right at Steve. His eyes were desperate and Steve’s best response was a nod, fearing to break the connection. “Do you ever like, imagine yourself dying?”   
  
“Um,” Steve considered it before. “Yeah. Increasingly now,” he admitted. He thought about the last moments, the impact, the fire, and things he didn’t know for sure but had a pretty good idea how. “More specific now. But I used to imagine sometimes. Freak accidents. Like, if someone were to jump out of that alley I’m walking past, or if this room caught fire. I think everybody does. That’s your lizard brain, isn’t it? Some survival mechanism?” He offered, hoping this conversation wasn’t going anywhere near something so heavy and dangerous as--- the idea had occurred to lots of people, in these final days. A modicum of control. Suddenly there were services everywhere: you could hire someone to do it, to find you without warning, like a spy novel. Jumpers, chemicals. When faced with a decision like this, it wasn’t an unfair option to some. He hoped the option hadn’t suddenly occurred to Bucky.    
  
“I imagined gangrene,” he said slowly, flexing tentatively. “Isn’t that stupid? As if we’d have time for another limb to rot off.” He was shaking as Steve held his hand carefully, and he chuckled. “I’d have to ask you to saw it off. Get a belt and a bottle of whiskey like it was the Civil War, lost both my arm privileges,” he said brokenly between laughs, and Steve started to lose it now, the two of them laughing freely now in the little guest bathroom, Bucky bleeding slowly through a cotton handkerchief in Steve’s hands. Steve sighed happily.    
  
“If you asked me, I probably would. But I’d really rather not have to explain it to your dog,” he said, peeling away the cotton. The gash wasn’t startlingly deep. Steve flicked on the tap and ran the handkerchief under the cold water, clouds of pink swirling into the drain. He wiped carefully at the wound. “That hurt?” He asked, looking up. Bucky was regarding him suddenly differently, quiet and sad. There was no more laughter in his eyes. “Buck?”   
  
“Are you scared to die, Steve?”    
  
“Oh yeah,” Steve replied almost automatically, and he was in teacher auto-pilot dressing Bucky’s hand with cotton, neosporin, and gauze. “But I’m not worried about it.”   
  
“What does that mean.”   
  
“Dying seems like the easiest part. That part I’m not worried about, that’s pretty reliable. I’m scared I won’t handle it well in the last moments and I’ll be spiraling thinking of all the shit I didn’t do, that the last thing I’ll feel is regret, or that other people will die thinking that I let them down, or maybe worse if nobody dies thinking of me at all and I’m forgotten even before I’m gone because everyone has someone else and something more important to them in that moment and I’ll just be---” Steve’s ramble skidded to a halt just short of ‘alone.’ Neither of them moved. Bucky’s bandaged hand lay soft in Steve’s, motionless. They met each other’s eyes and Natasha leaned smugly on the doorframe.    
  
“How’s it going?” She asked ambiguously. Steve wondered how long she’d been there before she conveniently revealed herself. Bucky took his hand back and Steve felt something tear when he found his own empty again, just short of his throat and somewhere behind his heart.    
  
“Doc says I’ll be back on my feet in six to eight weeks if I’m good about my PT,” Bucky said with a stone face. Steve could feel color in his cheeks that Nat would never miss (and she didn’t.) She nodded approvingly.    
  
“Can he have clearance to come with us to the movie theater, Doctor Rogers?” She asked. Steve wrung out the damp fabric and hung it over the edge of the sink.    
  
“What exactly do you mean when you say Clint can ‘get us in,’” he asked, in this moment feeling more like he was back in a dorm room bathroom than ever. “Is this some kind of club? Because---”   
  
“No,” she replied with a fond smile. “It’s been closed for a week, but my boy knows how the projectors work, because his skills include, but are not limited to, the last fifty things you think it would be helpful to know,” Natasha considered proudly. “He also can break in the building, but anybody can do that.”   
  
“Not as gracefully as I can,” Clint cut in, winding his arms around Natasha’s collar to rest his head against hers. “I know how the popcorn maker works, too. But I broke the Icee machine.”   


* * *

It became clear, about half an hour into _Mad Max_ , exactly what Clint and Natasha had been using this movie house for when, after some mild groping, the two of them got up and disappeared altogether into another theater. Bucky snickered and Luigi jumped into the now-vacant seat on his other side.   
  
“They’re something else, huh," he asked with a nudge. "Lovebirds."  
  
“My best friends from the old days,” Steve sighed happily. “This was pretty standard back then.”  
  
“You were dating Sharon?” Bucky replied without looking at him, eyes glued to the screen.  
  
“Uh,” Steve adjusted in his seat. “Yeah. Through all of college, actually. We met at orientation.”  
  
“That’s lucky,” Bucky said, his voice raised over the film soundtrack.   
  
“In some ways,” Steve said. He hadn't thought of it as lucky; in retrospect he might call it convenient. It worked in ways that he needed then, and frayed on edges they could ignore.  “Hey, that’s you teaching me to drive,” Steve joked as loud as he pleased, pointing to the film’s protagonist as she showed Max the start sequence for the war rig. Bucky snorted.  
  
“They got the arm right and everything," he laughed, tossing popcorn recklessly at the screen. "Furiosa, he's into you!" He yelled before nudging Steve. " Do you think they end up together?”  
  
“He’s the road warrior. No love in the wild,” Steve joked.  
  
“I think they’ve got a chance,” Bucky said more quietly, to himself almost, the movie nearly drowning him out. Steve turned to meet his eyes, the weight of the real question heavy in the close air between them. Their shoulders stayed perfectly pressed together. Neither of them were watching the movie. Steve knew for sure, in his fickle heart and the nagging logic center that demanded proof, that Bucky’s eyes had flickered downward to rest on his lips. He would bet his life savings on it. And a boldness of the moment, the intimacy of the dark, caught him as all he could register was just how beautiful he looked in the glow of the screen, so close and so relaxed, looking back at him.    
  
“Think so?” He asked, leaning imperceptibly towards him, to be heard or otherwise. The corners of Bucky’s mouth twitched.  
  
“Yeah.” Then there was closeness and darkness and the crush of mouths between them that drew Steve into a heady daze. Bucky met him with shy demand, asking a question with every breath between. Steve managed to push the armrest out of the way, and even so the lateral make-out was not as yielding as his body would’ve wanted, in an ideal scenario, where he could truly wrap himself wholly and give a little more a little faster a little more freely. As it was they were frenzied and confined, hands hopping between jaw and neck and chest like there wasn’t enough time because there wasn’t, really. It was then that the screen flickered and all at once they were plunged into darkness. They froze in place, suspending their tangle mid-motion and Steve could feel Bucky’s quickened breath stilling in a panic.  
  
“They must have finally cut the power,” he said uselessly. Bucky swallowed and retreated from Steve’s hands.   
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Probably the whole town is--- wait, _what_?” Steve caught up to Bucky’s whisper mid-sentence. He reached out into the darkness and found nothing. “Bucky?” Luigi barked from the ground at their feet and Steve was sure Bucky hadn’t left- there had been no sound- but the space felt empty then. No matter where Steve put his hands he couldn’t find him. “Buck, I didn’t---” The doors to the theater slammed open and Natasha and Clint were there at the back of the room, phone cameras like beacons into the room. Steve’s eyes adjusted in time to see Luigi scrambling over the seats to the row behind them, where Bucky stood wordlessly, somehow.   
  
“You two alright?” Natasha asked into the quiet room, her voice swallowed in the plush seats. Bucky’s eyes were glued to the floor. Steve stood up in a scramble, straightening his shirt.   
  
“Fine. Just getting to the, uh---”  _ don’t say climax don’t say good part don’t say end _ “---big fight, uh, scene.” Luigi had wedged himself between Bucky’s legs, looking up. Bucky said nothing.  
  
“No use sticking around. We got a generator for the basement back at the house,” Clint said. Steve felt the fire in his belly welling into a sick sinking as he kept his eyes on Bucky, silent as the grave and just as still. “Plenty of candles and shit for the upstairs bedrooms, too.”  
  
“Buck?”  
  
“Yeah.” His voice rose like smoke, and he would not look at Steve. “No use staying here in the dark.”   


* * *

The ride back would have been quiet if not for Clint busily retelling the entire plot of the original Mad Max, complete with sound effects and some truly terrible accent work. Lights were out all over town and the implications of that change hung heavy in the car. Steve hazarded a glance at Bucky, only the faintest light from the dashboard hitting his features in vain.   
  
“I thought this one was pretty good,” Steve said warily. “Did you like it? Bucky?”  
  
“Up until the end,” Bucky replied. Luigi sat between them, a furry barrier, and not, it seemed to Steve, oblivious to the tension. Clint nodded vigorously.  
  
“Couldn’t agree more. I want to see Furiosa building that place back up! That’s really the worst part about all this, you know?” Natasha turned to him slowly.  
  
“The worst part about the apocalypse?” She asked carefully. “The worst part about the world ending is that there won’t be any sequels?”  
  
“Yes,” he replied obviously. “That we’ll know of, anyway. I guess there’s no reason not to be optimistic about it,” he said archly. Natasha dragged a hand over her face and put the other on Clint’s at the gearshift.   
  
“Just when I didn’t think I could love you more.”  
  
“I contain multitudes,” Clint grinned, and a sharp turn into the driveway threw Steve into Luigi into Bucky. The lurch did nothing to calm the growing dread in Steve’s stomach. “So let’s drink a couple bottles of wine and write our own,” Clint offered as he turned the ignition. Natasha laughed, and they were in darkness again.   
  
“Maybe tomorrow night. I think our guests might want a good night’s sleep,” she replied, and they were getting out of the car, comfortable and happy like it was nothing new to be utterly blind in their own driveway. Natasha shone her phone flashlight on the pavement as she opened Steve’s door. “Hm?”  
  
“Yeah. Sleep is a good idea,” he said. After sleeping in the cabin of the truck, a bed would be an incredible improvement, and he was certain they would forget about everything that happened in the theater by morning.    


* * *

He had forgotten an obvious issue. He and Bucky stood silently, staring down the solitary guest bed in the middle of the room long after the foursome had said their polite goodnights and made breakfast plans. Steve scratched at the back of his neck.  
  
“I already told Nat I would take the couch, so don’t worry about it. I’ll just grab my---”  
  
“You take the bed,” Bucky insisted. “You’re doing most of the driving now, you’ll need it.”  
  
“Yeah, but---”  
  
“Just take the fucking bed, alright?” Bucky was tired; it was obvious in his half-hearted snap. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, headache encroaching. The rush from their kiss lingered on his temples, coursing.  
  
“I know we’re not going to talk about---”  
  
“It’s not,” Bucky insisted. “Absolutely not. It’s not that. We’re not _not-talking_ about anything, because there’s nothing to talk about. I know it didn’t mean anything.” He didn’t sound convinced, though he talked himself through it. Steve watched him, the light from the single bedside lampshade soft and forgiving. “I’m a grown man. End of the world creature comforts, I know.”  
  
“Creature comforts,” Steve repeated. The words felt loaded.  
  
“Yeah. Human contact. Basic needs, whatever. Honestly,” he said, scrubbing his hand over his face, “I’m just tired. We have a long journey ahead, we don’t have to make a big deal of it. Life is increasingly short. I’m sorry it got weird.”  
  
“Right. No, of course you’re right,” Steve offered immediately. It was a clear way out; the best possible solution and cleanest getaway from a a tangle of feelings, of having to spend his last days on earth navigating some kind of tiptoe connection. It was for the best. “I’m---” he swallowed a thought. “I’m glad you feel that way. Sure.” In a far corner of his heart he was shocked at the sound of his own detachment. And furthermore, he wasn’t sure he believed it. But something let him keep talking, and a smarter man might realize it was his heart. “Honestly, we can just--- we can both sleep on the bed. Like you said, not a big deal. I’m not trying to make it an issue, or anything. We’ve been sleeping in the truck together fine,” he said.   
  
“Oh.” Bucky considered it. “Yeah. It wouldn’t be a problem.”  
  
“Of course not.” Steve said with a confidence betrayed by his posture: he stood with his head bowed and arms tangled, holding each other, waiting for a move. Bucky kept his eyes on him and sat on the bed.  
  
“We both need a solid night’s rest.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“I prefer that side. Um,” Bucky shrugged, gesturing, “for the arm.” Steve nodded.   
  
“Perfect,” he admitted. “Apologies in advance for instinctive spooning.” He was sitting on the bed toeing off his shoes, and he tried not to hear the jingle of Bucky’s belt and have a Pavlovian response; this was going to be fine. They were grown men sharing a bed at the end of the world. It was almost military.   
  
“Creature comforts,” Bucky repeated again. “I won’t hold it against you. It just happens.” He clicked off the light and shifted beneath the covers on his side. Steve sat stock still for a moment, considering the words.   
  
_Was that permission?_  
  
But Bucky was breathing fast and ragged, clearly not asleep, and Steve wouldn't dare try. He carefully edged under the bedding and waited before scooting a little closer to the body that he was hyper-aware shared the space; it singed every inch of him from tip to toe with hot, waiting static. But he got his answer as Bucky pulled Steve's arm over him like it was just another comforter. Nothing was said. His breathing slowed, and synced to Steve's.   
  
They dreamt, respectively, of things they would not admit resembled the other: a man climbing through a window in the starlight to stage an escape; a man in the red, dry desert with eyes like oases begging a kiss in darkness. The dreams were languid and enduring, lasting full suns and moons and years into decades until they stood at the edge of a hundred years together, still then asking questions and finding new roads to travel. When the sun broke the curtains, they had separately spent lifetimes in the wake of that kiss they wouldn't talk about in the morning.

* * *

When their bladders demanded they return to reality, beckoned by smoke and maple syrup, they shuffled with sleepy halos to breakfast. They both put a silent pin in the full-body comfort that they would blame on 'a good night’s rest in a real bed' that couldn’t quite explain away the lingering sweetness of waking up in a close, easy knot. It wasn’t conversation for slicing strawberries much less maybe the last strawberries they’d ever have. Quietly Bucky would wash and stem them, and Steve would slice them into careful segments, slow with sleep. There was nothing awkward in their proximity now; the rhythm was inherent, and Joni Mitchell played knowingly in the background. 

“Hey, Slow and Steady,” Natasha said, looking at their cutting board. "You guys doing alright?" Steve looked up from his slicing to meet Bucky’s eyes. All things considered, they were.  
  
All things, including but not limited to fears shared in a truck bed, crucially misplaced mail, a dog the size of a bear, driving stickshift, 200 miles to Boston, 2000 to Arizona, a relationship that wouldn’t have time to bloom, and one final bow.   
  
Bucky shrugged.   
  
“We’re trying,” he said, one corner of his mouth remembering having woken up in the middle of the night buried in Steve's collar and curling with a smile. “Don’t rush us.”   
  
Breakfast stretched lazily to lunch, and no one dared point out the hours as they fell away. Moments within took precedence, and each was devoured between the four of them at the shared table. Luigi and Lucky never had such a feast of scraps in their lives, and their happy oblivion reminded the overthinking humans at their feet that pancakes were, indeed, one of life's great wonders.


End file.
